A Lakeland Christmas, in Prose, being a Ghost Story of Christmas
by Strange Brew
Summary: With profuse and profound apologies to Mister Charles Dickens, here is an entirely unoriginal festive offering. It's Christmas Eve, and Roger Walker Esq. is sitting in his counting-house... sort of. Further explanations inside. Happy Christmas!


**A/N: With profuse and profound apologies to Mister Charles Dickens, **here is a short, daft festive offering.

The events mentioned here won't make much sense if you haven't read my story, Crossfire, but it can be read as a standalone if you suspend disbelief for a moment (John killed off, Miss Blackett Finding Herself in the manner of Miss Ogilvy et cetera...). 'Crossfire' isn't finished, and I dithered about whether I should publish this now and 'spoil' my own story, but - whatever - it's Christmas!

* * *

**A Lakeland Christmas, in Prose; being a Ghost Story of Christmas**

John was dead. There was no doubt whatsoever about that. His coffin lay six feet under in a Lakeland churchyard. Roger had dumped a whole shovel-full of earth on top of it, and had then hurled the shovel away from him, nearly decapitating the vicar in his awful robes. Yes, old John was a dead as a door-nail.

Roger knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? His only brother – dead doing his duty in the South Pacific, while he, Roger, was safe in Canada, learning to fly. And Roger, now, in the grey winter of 1948, was a miserable, clutching, womanising, drinking, smoking old sinner! Only twenty-five years old, and already as hard and sharp as flint. He carried his own low temperature about with him; he iced his office (where he produced technical drawings for a large and war-swollen aerospace company) in the dog-days, and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas.

And so it was that on Christmas Eve, Roger Walker sat alone in his London flat, a glass of whiskey by his side and muttering to himself about Christmas puddings and stakes of holly. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: a peasouper outsider, and breath rising in clouds inside. His superb fighter-pilot's wrist-watch told him it had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already. Indeed, it had not been light all day.

The telephone rang. Roger picked it up with a scowl. 'Roger!' That was Nancy at the other end of the line, her voice coming as clear as a bell through the crackles. 'When are you coming up? We're all here, and it's Christmas.'

'Bah,' said Roger, 'You bloody humbug. You're not all there at all. Where's John? Where's your husband? Eh?'

'Not this again, Roger,' Nancy sounded tired rather than cross.

'Christmas?' said Roger, taking a swig of whiskey. 'What's Christmas time but a time for half-families and half-people to feel their losses all the keener? A time for comparing assumed perfection with actual dysfunction? A time for paying bills without money; for drinking too much and picking fights with people you've never liked anyway?'

'Roger!' That was Titty on the line now. 'Don't be such a beast.'

'Keep Christmas in your own way, sis, and let me keep it in mine.'

'Oh, Roger.' That was Dorothea. Roger perked up a bit, thinking of her dark hair and fine eyes. 'Christmas is such a lovely time,' she said, 'the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.'

Typical Dot. What the hell did that mean?

'Do come up,' she said. 'I'd love to see you.'

'Goodbye,' said Roger.

'Oh, Roger. I am sorry, with all my heart to find you so resolute…'

There was the sound of a scuffle. Then it was Nancy back on the line. 'Don't be such a donkey.'

'Goodbye,' said Roger again.

'Merry Christmas anyway, you little idiot.'

'Goodbye,' said Roger, and replaced the receiver.

He thought about going to the pub, but dismissed the idea. Some idiot would be bound to try and draw him into conversation. He heated up a can of soup instead, and sat down to eat it in his dark and dreary kitchen. Darkness was cheap, and it was for this reason that Roger, looking briefly at the unpaid utility bill on the table, liked it.

It was a melancholy meal.

Another whiskey and then bed. He closed his eyes.

Outside, a bell was chiming. Roger lay in his narrow bed, wide awake.

'Cold night out.'

Who'd said that? Roger switched on the bedside lamp in a panic.

'Hullo, Roger.'

'John…?'

John's ghost – for the figure lounging back comfortably in Roger's only easy chair undoubtedly _was _a ghost, being entirely transparent and glowing slightly – grinned at him in a very familiar way. 'Of course I'm John,' said the apparition. 'Who else were you expecting?'

'I don't believe it,' said Roger.

'Believe what you want. But I _am_ me.'

Roger looked. That was John's grin, all right; that was his side-parting, that was his old cricket jumper, and that was the small pen-knife scar across the knuckles of his left hand.

'Whatever do you want from me?'

'Is that any way to greet your dead brother?' asked John mildly, lighting a transparent cigarette. 'You might ask me how I am.'

'OK,' said Roger, feeling close to fainting dead away, 'how are you?'

'Not bad, thank you. Had a bit of a bad time on the old _Prince of Wales_ for a few minutes, but that's all over now. I'm having a rather splendid time up in the old afterlife, I must say.'

'Really?' asked Roger, suddenly curious. 'You mean there is one?'

'Well, there was for _me_. Don't know about anyone else. A good wind, no war, and _Swallow_ on the lake. Nancy's there, and Father, and…'

'Nancy? _Nancy's_ there? But she's…'

'Still alive? Yes, that doesn't seem to matter much.'

'Actually,' said Roger, blushing, 'I meant that she's…'

'Batting for Oxford now?' John grinned. 'Yes, I had noticed. Rather delightful, isn't it?'

'_Delightful_?'

'Well, _I_ think so.' The apparition stared at him. 'Oh, come on, Roger. You can't have expected her to live the rest of her life as a widow? _Nancy_? Our Nancy? _My_ Nancy? A grieving widow for the rest of her life? You _are_ an idiot.'

'But… she's with Dora now. She's a _woman_.'

'Perceptive, aren't you?' John grinned again. 'Look. I think it's splendid. She always was a bit… different. _You_ knew that. We all did. I'd much rather I hadn't drowned, you know, but since I _have_, well, I want her to be happy. And,' he said, stubbing out his cigarette on the arm of Roger's chair without leaving a burn mark, 'I think I'd rather she was happy with Dora than married to some dreadful squirt in a demob suit. Wouldn't you?'

'I don't know.'

'Don't be a gummock.'

Roger started. That was a Nancy-ism.

John's eyes were twinkling. 'I told you,' he said, 'she's with me, on the Lake, shivering timbers left, right, and centre. The _other_ her – the Nancy that's here on earth – well, if she's managed to con a red-headed beauty into bed with her, then bloody good luck to her! And Dora _is_ beautiful, you know, _and _quick, and she doesn't take any of Nancy's nonsense. She's perfect for her. My wife always did know _exactly_ what she wanted.'

The apparition smiled complacently.

'So you don't mind?'

'Of course I don't mind! But, look here, that's not why I'm here.'

'Oh?'

The John-ghost fumbled in a pocket. 'Hang on a sec… This bloody thing's stuck. Here we are.' He brandished a chain, forged of blocks, tackle, and bowline bends. 'I wear the chain I forged in life,' he said, in a terrible voice, 'I made it link by link, and yard by yard…' John paused, as if trying to remember the fifteenth verse of _Casabianca_. 'Hold on… ah yes. Would you know the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? Bloody hell, I've forgotten the next bit. Oh, yes – It is a _ponderous_ chain!'

Roger glanced about him. 'I don't see a chain,' he said, 'ponderous or otherwise.'

'Never mind that,' said John. 'This is the important bit. You were meant to be haunted by Three Spirits, but they're all a bit busy tonight – Christmas Eve and all – so you're stuck with me for the duration, I'm afraid.' John peered out of the window. 'Yes, there you are, you see. The air's full of phantoms, wandering hither and thither in restless haste…'

'Duration of _what_?'

'Your redemption, of course! Your Christmas-time _volte-face_!'

'Oh,' said Roger. 'If it's all the same to you, I think I'd rather not.'

'No choice,' said John cheerfully, sounding again rather like his wife. 'Come on; show a leg there, AB. Time to visit the past.'

A clock chimed suddenly, a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy One. Light flashed up in the room upon the instant.

'Just try to imagine I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past, would you, old chap?' said John, lighting another cigarette. 'I'm not really feeling up to generating a jet of light from the crown of my head at the moment. Now – rise! And walk with me!'

'OK,' said Roger, looking with distrust at his empty whiskey glass. 'Where're we going?'

'We're already there,' said John, a little smugly, and Roger looked round, and found that they were in the old Walker drawing room in Portsmouth. 'Gosh,' he said, 'don't I look _young_!'

'Six years old,' said John, 'and I'm twelve.'

Roger peered closer. There was his mother, heavily pregnant, handing Titty a present. There was Titty's delighted gappy grin – milk teeth lost – as she opened her new copy of _Robinson Crusoe_. There was Susan – dear Susan! – sitting over there with his younger self by the fire, helping him with his Meccano starter kit. There were the remainder of the mince pies, on their tray on the carpet. There was John, opening his new penknife with a shout of joy. There was his father, tanned and wiry, beaming round at them all.

'The Christmas before we met the Amazons,' remarked John. 'It was a good one.'

'Look at my _hair_,' said Roger, appalled, 'didn't they ever brush it?'

'Hah!' said John. 'As if you ever let them try! Watch.'

There was a sudden commotion in the corner. Meccano pieces fell into the hearth with a great clatter.

'Roger!' Young Susan sounded appalled. 'That was very naughty!'

His younger self stuck his tongue out at her, and then ran from the room, sobbing.

'I pushed it over on purpose,' said Roger, remembering. 'What a little swine!'

'Indeed,' said John, 'but aren't we all, sometimes?'

'Oh dear,' said Roger, 'is this meant to be a Moral?'

'Probably,' said John. 'Come on. Onwards! Christmas Present calls!'

The unidentified bell chimed the hour again. Back in his dreary flat, Roger looked around. Everything was bathed in a blaze of ruddy light. John was doing something with what looked like a pillow and a false beard. 'No,' he said at last, 'it's no good. I can't be a jolly Giant or a Saint Nicholas-type, so it's no use trying. You'll have to imagine the cornucopia and sausages and rusting scabbard and holly wreath and all that as well. Sorry. Anyway. I am the Ghost of Christmas Present! Look upon me!'

Roger did, and they both burst out laughing.

'Enough of that,' said John, when they'd recovered. 'Time to go north.'

Roger looked around. A bright Christmas morning on the Beckfoot lawn, sunlight glinting on rime and frozen blades of grass, and an air of cheerfulness abroad. 'Inside,' said John, giving him a push. And there they all were. Peggy's daughter Henrietta toddling rapidly across the thick Beckfoot drawing-room carpet and crowing in startled delight at the row of bulging stockings hanging by the fireplace. Peggy sitting back with a Christmas morning novel and a contented sigh; Susan catching the child before it immolated itself in the already roaring fire. Dick sitting at the drawing room table, tangled in lengths of wire and tiny bulbs, smiling up at Titty as she kissed the top of his head. Titty bulging under her woollen twin-set.

'Wait, Titty's _pregnant_? Why did no-one tell me?'

'You never asked,' said John, a hint of reproach in his voice for the first time. 'You never once asked.'

Roger felt winded.

'Keep looking,' said John firmly.

There was Dora, bright in an inappropriately scarlet skirt and pinstriped shirt, triumphantly producing a bottle of champagne from a hamper. There was Nancy – 'That's one of my shirts,' said John, fondly – grinning her old Amazon grin. There was Bridget, giggling at something Nancy had just said. There was an unknown man sat next to her – 'Rory,' said John, 'he's in the Navy, and wants to marry Bridgie. Poor bugger.' There was his mother, producing champagne glasses. There was Mrs Blackett, sitting on the carpet with Henrietta and Susan and waving a rattle to the child's never-ending delight. There was his father, doing yesterday's crossword. There was Dorothea, scribbling in a note-book and jabbing a pencil absent-mindedly into the fashionable waves in her hair and giving herself an unintentional halo of frizz. There was another unfamiliar figure, hooting with laughter ('Dora's sister,' said John, 'lovely girl.') There was Captain Flint, who'd grown a white beard for the occasion, decanting claret. There was a very tiny old lady with a huge smile, who appeared to be gossiping with an ancient and rigid bolt-upright figure who was nodding her head regally in agreement. ('The _Great Aunt_? The _Great Aunt_ is here? God, I'm glad I'm not, then,' said Roger, and he was shushed by John. 'Shut up, Roger – she's getting on very well with Dora's Aged Parent. They were both at Girton, apparently, and Lady Carrington knows the Duchess of Devonshire. The Great Aunt couldn't be happier.')There was Cook in the kitchen, and there was Timothy – arms white to the elbow with flour – making pastry ('Really?' said Roger, '_Timothy_?'), and there was the goose in the oven and the ham and the sausages and potatoes all ready to be baked. There was the pudding on the stove. There was a glorious smell of sage and onion and cinnamon and orange and pans deglazed with brandy.

'Gosh,' said Roger, 'oh, gosh.'

'Listen,' said his ghostly brother.

'I do wish Roger was here.' That was Dorothea.

'Stuff Roger,' said Susan, and he, Roger, was shocked to see tears in her eyes.

'Darling,' said Dora, 'I'm so sorry. This is all my fault.'

'Rot,' said Peggy, Susan, and Mrs Blackett all at once.

'If it's anyone's fault, it's mine.' That was Nancy.

'Nonsense. He's a stubborn fool, and there's no-one to blame but him.' That was his own mother!

'Who suffers by his ill whims?' Dorothea had that dreamy look in her eyes again. 'Himself, always… The consequence of his taking a dislike to us, and not making merry with us, is that he loses some pleasant moments that could do him no harm…'

'A toast,' said Titty, 'a toast to my idiot younger brother, wherever he is.'

'There!' Dick had suddenly surrounded himself with a thousand tiny points of light. 'It was simply a question of testing each one…'

'Fairy lights! Oh, Dick! How lovely.'

'Right,' said Roger's father. 'Champagne. Look here, Dora, you'd better give that bottle to me if you're just going to wave it about like that…'

'I wish I could join them,' said John sadly. 'Just for a day.'

'We miss you terribly. Every day.' Roger found he had to force the words out over a fairly sizeable lump in his throat.

'_We_?' John's voice was suddenly angry. 'We? _They_ do, and _you_ do, but I don't see much evidence of _we_ here, I'm afraid.'

'Is this another Moral?' The words sounded far more petulant that he'd intended.

'You decide.'

The clock chimed the hour again. Twelve heavy sounds. John was gone. In his place was a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming, like a mist along the ground, towards him.

'John?'

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently, approached. It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand.

'John, this isn't funny.'

The ghost was silent.

'John, please.'

The phantom moved. Roger followed helplessly. A bare room. A hospital bed. A television flickering silently on a bracket in the corner. An iron-haired woman on the screen.

Two women standing outside the door, in white smocks.

'No-one's come, then?'

'Not a soul.'

'Better send him off the morgue. We need the bed.'

'Heard the latest news?'

'No.'

'NHS funding to be frozen.'

'Hah. There's a surprise.'

'The private sector will fill the gap. Supposedly.'

'Naturally.'

'We'll have nothing but poor buggers like him in a couple of years. Paupers, Dickens would have called them.'

'God help us.'

The two women drifted away.

The phantom – cloaked, silent, hand outstretched – pointed at the bed. A bare, uncurtained bed, on which, beneath a tight sheet, there lay a something covered up, which, though it was dumb, announced itself in awful language. Roger shuddered. A pale light, rising in the outer air – the sodium glow of a street lamp, or the slanting headlights of a passing car – fell straight upon the bed; and on it, plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of a man.

Roger turned to the phantom, pleading in his eyes.

The body in the hospital room vanished. In its place was a neglected grave. His own name – Roger Walker – engraved upon the stone.

'John!' he cried, 'Am _I_ that man who lay upon the bed?'

The finger pointed.

'No! John! Oh, no, no!'

The phantom threw back its cowl. There was John, his brother, grinning.

'Had you there, didn't I?'

And Roger woke up sobbing.

* * *

Roger ran. He ran down Caledonian Road, down York Way, along Euston Road; boots pounding and slipping on the slushy pavements. At Euston station, he shouted at the man in the ticket office, and paid pounds and pounds for a ticket on the last train north. Hours and hours on the train, steaming through stations in the dark. 'Hurry, hurry, hurry,' whispered Roger to himself, huddled by himself in a freezing and threadbare compartment, urging the train on.

But at Oxenholme, there was no connection onwards. He'd missed it. He stood on the platform alone, the only passenger to have alighted. The station was deserted, a Christmas tree flickering in the waiting room the only sign of life. No cars in the station yard. The engine let off steam, and then pistons pumped, cranks moved, wheels turned, and the red lamp on the guard's van disappeared into blackness.

And then he was alone in the vast, velvet silence of an Arctic night. A dome of stars above. To the north and west, the fells were great voids in the sky. Hard frost glittered like diamonds on every surface.

Roger checked his watch. Midnight, Christmas Eve 1948.

He started walking.

* * *

'Happy Christmas, darling!' Dora's lipstick left a scarlet smudge on the rim of her champagne glass, perfect scarlet prints on the cheeks of Walkers, Blacketts, Turners, Callums and Carringtons, and a messy scarlet smear on Nancy's lips.

'Happy Christmas, everyone!' Glasses were raised. The goose was in the oven. The pudding was simmering. Presents were piled beneath the tree.

'Hullo,' said Roger Walker, opening the door to the drawing room with mud on his boots and in a swirling halo of glorious wintry air, 'I've come for Christmas lunch.'

* * *

And after the goose and the ham and the stuffing and the potatoes and the pudding and the mince pies and the satsumas and the chocolates were eaten, and after the champagne and the claret and the cups of tea were drunk, and after the presents were opened, Roger proposed a toast.

'To my brother,' he said, simply.

'To John,' they said, and tried not to cry. Walkers and Blacketts were never ones for crying.

'And to love,' he said, raising his glass again, 'which can be said or unsaid, but is always known and felt.'

'To love,' they said, and they drank.

And it was always said of Roger – as he sat in the Beckfoot drawing room with Dorothea reading to him on his right and his father next to him on his left, and his sister Susan opposite him with Peggy's daughter on her knee, and Peggy next to her by the fire, and his sister Titty and his brother-in-law Dick over there in the corner by the gramophone, and his erstwhile sister-in-law Nancy and her lover Dora dancing with his sister Bridget and her lover Rory, and his mother and Dora's sister and Timothy and Cook and the Great Aunt and Lady Carrington and Jim Turner all there too – it was always said of Roger that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us!

And so, as Tiny Tim (who has not been in this story at all) observed, God bless Us, Every One!

* * *

Happy Christmas, everybody!


End file.
